


SWtOR - Freedom in Wrath

by rprambles



Category: Star Wars Legends: The Old Republic (Video Game)
Genre: Blood and Gore, Freedom, Gen, Past Abuse, Past Slavery, Sith Empire, The Force
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-16
Updated: 2019-09-16
Packaged: 2020-10-20 05:01:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,360
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20669741
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rprambles/pseuds/rprambles
Summary: The soldiers continue to stare at him. He stares back. He may have torn through the party-goers with ease, but he doubts that he can take on a full squad of Imperial soldiers. He doesn’t care, in truth. They can kill him if they like, but he will stand tall and proud while they do it.





	SWtOR - Freedom in Wrath

He doesn’t remember when he lost the harness. Maybe when he lost the muzzle. His back aches, muscles twitching painfully after so long forced into an unnatural shape. He can’t remember the last time he stood straight, or didn’t have the taste of durasteel against his tongue. The coppery tang of blood is not much better, but still an improvement. And it is quiet in the house. Blessed wonderful silence, broken only by soft drips into the puddles around his feet. He lets his eyes close, basking in the calm that seems to wrap around him like a soft blanket. Tears slide through his fur, stinging against open wounds, but he is used to pain, and hardly feels it past the relief.

It’s over. Gods, it is over.

He doesn’t know how long he stands there; time has been odd to him for a long while. But something presses against the quiet, sharp little pinks of…fear? He opens his eyes and meets the gaze of the soldier standing across the room. The rifle shakes in their hands as they take a cautious step back, shouting for back-up. More soldiers come, all staring at him in shock.

Which disturbs them more, he finds himself wondering. The lines across his body, wounds that have healed and reopened and scarred into his bones, his own blood dripping down his chin. Or perhaps the blood that is not his, staining his claws, soaking his feet, puddled around the broken and torn bodies scattered around him. Personally he’s rather disoriented by the furniture. The plush chairs and trophy rugs drift around him, as if held in place by a gentle wind. As soon as he makes note of it, the objects fall to the floor. Slowly at first, and then all at once in a great clatter.

The soldiers continue to stare at him. He stares back. He may have torn through the party-goers with ease, but he doubts that he can take on a full squad of Imperial soldiers. He doesn’t care, in truth. They can kill him if they like, but he will stand tall and proud while they do it.

After several minutes of tense stillness, one of the soldiers signals to the others and the barrels slowly droop. He tilts his head with a curious noise. Are they not going to kill him, then?

The door opens again and the soldiers part before a robed Mirialan, hood pulled low over her face. The air seems to twist around her, a hum of pride and power; a stark difference to the willowy Zabrak following her, eyes wide in shock at the scene. The figure takes it all in quietly before meeting his gaze. Her eyes seem to glow in the shadow of her hood, a sharpness that makes him wary.

“I will handle this from here, Lieutenant,” she announces. “Thank you.”

The soldiers stand down, one bowing in deference, and file out. Only once the door seals behind them does the figure lift her hood away from her face. Black tattoos frame her eyes, twisting a little as she curls her lip, gaze falling to the head near her feet. “How barbaric. I knew you were loathsome, Pavish, but this is ridiculous.

“Ah well. There is no helping stupidity.” With a shake of her head she turns to him again and smiles. “Shall we speak in the parlor? I’m sure you would like to sit and rest.”

Slowly he steps forward. His limbs are stiff, knees trembling. He has not stood and walked upright in so long. But he forces himself to keep standing until he reaches the couch, nearly falling into it. The room spins and he closes his eyes to collect himself.

“Hylia, fetch us something to drink and a medkit?” Humor colors the air for a moment. “And some clothes, if only for propriety’s sake.”

Oh. Right. He’s naked. He blinks his eyes open again and looks about for something to cover himself with, settling for one of the overly-fancy cushions that adorn the couch. It occurs to him that he’s bleeding on it and the thought sends a pleasant thrill through him. Not only is he daring to sit like a person, he’s ruining the furniture. He suddenly wants to do the same to every expensive thing in the estate. After all, no one was going to stop him now.

Hylia returns, setting the items on the table before him. He tries to speak, wincing as he croaks, “Thank you.” He hardly recognizes the sound that comes out as his own voice. Gods, how long has it been since he could properly speak?

Hylia bows slightly and returns to the Mirialan’s side, who sits back as if the armchair is a throne. “Do you have a name?”

He does. He’s engraved it in his mind, scratched it into the floor of his cage so he wouldn’t forget. “Cabe.” He swallows and tries again, voice a little firmer. “Cabe Akarda.”

“I am Lord Tersen, Minister of Law. Do you require assistance with tending to your injuries?”

He looks down at the medkit. Nods after a moment. Tersen gestures and Hylia steps over again, opening the kit. The servant’s touch is gentle and the kolto feels heavenly. He doesn’t protest when she turns his head as she needs. After a moment he blinks, refocusing on Tersen. “...you are a Sith.”

“I am. You know you are in the Empire, then.”

He nods stiffly. Swallows as he thinks of how to ask. "How long?” A poor choice, she has no way of knowing when he'd been taken.

But she understands his meaning. “You’re familiar with the Treaty of Coruscant? That was almost nine years ago.”

It takes it a moment to sink in. Two years. He’s been kept as a slave - an animal - for _two years_. Suddenly he wishes he hadn’t killed the nobles so quickly. They deserved to suffer for what they’d done, what they’d stolen from him-

The shatter of glass makes him jump and he looks at the mess of water and glass shards on the table. Hylia doesn’t even blink. Tersen smiles. “Your anger is very potent.”

He frowns, wincing when it pulls at the kolto patches on his face. He hadn’t touched it, how could he have done that?

“You are strong in the Force. Such things can lay buried until a peak of emotion drives it to the surface. And now that your strength has become manifest, doors have opened before you.” Tersen steeples her fingers, amber gaze never leaving him. “Normally escaped slaves are imprisoned. Those that kill their captors are usually put to death. But those sensitive in the Force are uncommon enough, it would not do to waste them. It will take time for you to heal fully, but once you have, I will pay for your travel to Korriban. If you wish.”

That throws him off a little. Unused to being given a choice, confused why a Sith was offering him one. “And if I don’t? You’ll kill me.”

She tilts her head thoughtfully. “Perhaps. Or perhaps I’ll give you enough credits for one shuttle pass and wish you luck. Either way, you have time to think on it.”

“Why?”

“I find you intriguing. Given the right opportunities, I wonder what you could become.”

Hylia closes the kit and bows to Cabe again before returning to her lord’s side. Cabe glances at her, refocusing on Tersen quickly. He doesn't trust her, but somehow he knows she isn't lying. The idea of freedom is tempting - and terrifying. As much as he instinctively balks at the thought of following someone else’s direction, as much as he hates to admit it, being on his own frightens him. It’s all confusing and the ache of his injuries isn't helping. “May I have time to consider?”

“Of course. You are welcome to stay at my estate while you recover. No doubt you’re eager to leave this place.”

He is, he’s wanted nothing more than that for years. He snatches up the clothes quickly, ignoring the stinging protests of his body. “Lead the way, my lord.”


End file.
